


dawn will rise

by behzaintfunny



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Weirwood(s), Young Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-15 16:42:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14794196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/behzaintfunny/pseuds/behzaintfunny
Summary: "Catelyn raises the rose towards her lips. She leaves a single kiss, the barest touch, on a peculiarly fragile petal."





	dawn will rise

It is in the nature of humanity to cling to the things we love, even if it hurts.

Catelyn closes her eyes and imagines she is back at home. She can almost feel the sharp air burning at her nostrils, a chill going down her spine as she watches the mighty stone towers towering over endless water. Wind is blowing her hair away from her cheeks, making her shiver with unease. The cold stone under her bare feet feels almost soft, like the plush of a wolf's fur. She opens her eyes and finds the fur tickling her toes.

_She's home._

She hastily throws on a cape of furs in desperate need to get some fresh air. Promptly ignoring her maiden calling after her, she steps outside into the great wide open.

There is an unsettling cold about Winterfell. Be it from the thick snow or frosty breeze, she cannot tell. There is something in the air that makes it feel like this. Foreign, frozen, _desolate_.

Then, before her eyes, a single red rose amongst the ivory cover of snow.

She looks around to see if anyone's watching her. Father has taught her so. When she's positive she isn't being taunted, she runs towards it. Excitement is being pressed into the ground with every passing step. The closer she gets, the brighter the flower seems to be. Given the chance, it shows signs of modesty, sincerity and possibly even care.

Catelyn brushes her dress away from her feet as she crouches down. The silky smooth snow is tickling her ankles, balancing on the edge of painful. No such thing matters when her fingers reach to caress the rose's delicate petals. Momentarily, she halts, afraid they would fall off at her merest touch.

_They don't._

Somehow, she feels inclined to reach out again.

It might be ancient magic, or her head is messing with her, but her nostrils are full of the sublime floral scent. This single flower on a big, big field, yet it seems to have taken up her whole world. Its bright colors aren't so much enticing as they were. _They're--_

They're making her dizzy with adoration.

Giving it no further consideration, she rips the rose out of its solace, the ground. The roots make a cruel noise that suspiciously reminds her of what a rabbit sounds like when he gets his neck broken.

 _Curious_ , she thinks.

Catelyn raises the rose towards her lips. She leaves a single kiss, the barest touch, on a peculiarly fragile petal. Suddenly, she hisses in a sudden fit of pain. Her hand is practically burning.

Its the rose, giving its vengeance for depriving it of its past life.

She watches the droplets of blood melt away snow, entranced. She notices footsteps approaching, but no voice. Urgent, it seems not, therefore free to be ignored.

Ice cold, blue eyes seem to be burning holes at the back of her neck. They stop in their movements when they notice young lady Tully gently placing a single, fragile rose on a bed of snow. Her bloodied hands shake as they settle to lay on her thighs. She throws her head down in what presumably is a prayer.

Prince Eddard prays, too.

He prays for a chance. _Nothing more. Nothing less._

When she finally turns her head back, it is to see a young knight adorning furs far more beautiful than her own. A tall figure, though hardly menacing, with eyes that _scream_ winter. The man she is soon to call her husband.

It was never about what Eddard was or was not.

_(What Eddard was not, is her most precious friend, Petyr, whom she trusted with her life._

_What he was, though, was so much more._

_She planned on never telling him that.)_

From the most distant of days until now, life was centered around getting her ready for her betrothed. She learned how to sew earlier than she ever spoke a word. A dagger, forever snug against her side, her only weapon. A lady's weapon, her mother would say.

Catelyn would snap her head up at her and ask in sheer, childish curiosity, what forbids a woman from wielding a sword. The terror of the neverending, deep, mysterious rivers surrounding Riverrun castle was enough to keep her from asking any more unnecessary questions.

When she had first met Eddard, careless and always laughing, she was not his. He, respectively, not hers. This is not the fairytale her mother had dreamed of. It had to do.

When she had first met Prince Eddard, the soon-to-be Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, she felt ridiculously small under his gaze.

Eddard's eyes didn't necessarily percieve any negative emotions per se. It was the weight of them on her skin that drove her crazy.

Eddard was charming. Incredibly so. He never, ever gave up in his futile attempts to win Catelyn's heart. Truly, a knight at heart.

"'Tis already yours." she wanted to say but never did.

Eddard hesitantly closed the distance between the two of them until he was at an arm's length. He exhales, as though all anxieties in the world are stuck inside his lungs, before reaching out a hand.

"Would you walk with me to where the weirwood tree grows, my lady?" he finally asks.

She notes how his eyes shine with a faint glimmer of hope. She can hardly believe she had never noticed that before.

Catelyn grasps his hand in hers, "It would be my pleasure."

And so they walk, hand in hand, for what feels like both an eternity and barely a few seconds. Eddard finds joy in explaining to Catelyn what lays where, making her consider this place like more of a home.

She has seen weirwood trees before, but never like this. This intimate setting, whatever aura they had around them, it caused her to feel almost uncomfortably watched by the ancient tree. The red fluids coming out of its eyes make her remember her hand. The very hand clutched in Eddard Stark's much warmer one.

Eddard whispers, "Beautiful, isn't it?"

Catelyn nods her head almost immediately, "Will its flowers ever blossom?"

"Soon." Eddard smiles gently, "Though it seems we merely must keep on checking until it happens."

She watches the weirwood tree's branches dancing in the wind in an awe, "I would not mind that in the slightest."

The wet snowflakes falling from its tiny leaves onto her scalp make her shiver involuntarily.

"Are you cold, my lady?" Eddard asks, already reaching out to unclasp his cape.

"Catelyn." she replies once he settles the unfamilliar, warm weight over her shoulders and back, "My name is Catelyn."

The Stark grins at her, a gentle, reserved smile, "Ned Stark, my sweet Catelyn."

As Eddard _\-- Ned --_ throws an arm over her shoulders and pulls her into an embrace, it dawns on Catelyn that the roses with the sharpest thorns may hold the sweetest of nectars.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Thirty Seconds To Mars.  
> My first work in this fandom... surprising, I know. This is an effect of my procrastination. I hope you enjoy some of our favourite pairing which really, Really deserved better.
> 
> As always, kudos and comments make my day a whole lot better! <3


End file.
